The Knife of the Thief
by Stella Starfish
Summary: A story about a modern day Thief Bakura told from the perspective of his knife... odd, but interesting story :D


My first fanfic! I'm so happy! This is kind of a weird one, about a modern day Thief Bakura (though it never says his name). I actually wrote this for my English class last year... any way, I'm rambling! Please review! :D

Knife of the Thief

I remember every night he took me out. I was with him throughout all his struggles, all his fights (fair or otherwise) and I was with him for the copious rewards at the end of the night. I was his best friend; I overheard him say one night. When I was with him, he felt invincible, like nothing could ever hurt him, like the whole world was just some bad sitcom that everybody hated but was forced to watch. I was enamored, quite frankly, that he thought of me that way. He was my best friend, too, my life-long companion, my soul mate.

We were inseparable. He would spend days in his room, secluded from the rest of the world, plotting and scheming. I was there, of course. He never let me out of his sight. I was his escape; whenever anything went wrong in his life, whenever his animosity towards the rest of the world threatened to drive him mad, he would take me out. He wouldn't do anything; he just liked to look at me. It was an obsession he had. I was his inspiration. Whenever he looked at me, he was known to confess, it was like a lightning bolt struck him. He knew immediately what to do. And so, in the dead of night, he and I would go out, sneaking into our targets houses; him taking anything he thought was of value, and I taking care of anyone who opposed us. We were an unstoppable combo; nothing could beat us.

He was a strange man; and, though I loved him more than anything else in this world, he frightened me at times. There were times when he was vehement and destructive, both mentally and physically. Those were the times I hated the most, the times when it seemed that it was only a matter of time before the darkness consumed him entirely. He was disconsolate; nothing in the world, it seemed, could cheer him up. Then, on the flip side, he would have times when he acted with great civility, his manner very temperate; the perfect gentleman. These were the times when he would take me out, just to look at me, his eyes calm and warm, reflecting the shiny steel off of them dully.

I suppose it was this abnormality that got us separated. I will always remember that night, the last we ever had together. He and I were out, and he was talking to me, an odd habit he'd acquired shortly after we'd met. I had been homeless, and he took me in after finding me abandoned on the side of the road after some street fight. That's what he was talking about that night in the alley. He told me then that he didn't know what he would do without me. He would have gone on, I'm sure, but we had work to do, and in order for our ingenious plan to succeed, we needed to act quickly. So we left the alley and slipped into that night's target house. It was a fairly large house, with lots of valuables.

And, apparently, security.

The police took us away after much struggling on our part. We tried to make a concord with them, but they wouldn't hear it. So we were taken into custody, separated from each other. He was taken into questioning; I was labeled as "Artifact A". Apparently the damage we'd caused the landowner was enough to earn him six months in the ER (though I felt no remorse; he was a man of ponderous wealth and could afford the bill easily).

The trial was over fairly quickly, and we were separated. He was admitted into a mental institution, deemed "Unstable; a hazard to society" by the prejudiced jury. I was (and am) held in the police station, stored with all the other evidence from the incident.

I keep hoping my thief will come back for me one day, though I know it's futile to think such thoughts. He's never coming back, not after such a long time. The police station has burned down twice since I've been here, both times within the first twenty years. The second time I was overlooked by the cleanup crew, swept aside with the other smoldering remains of the building.

Someday I know someone will come and pick me up off the side of the street, and think to themselves, 'I wonder what your story is?' turning me over in his or her hands. And of course I will tell them. I will tell them everything. I will tell them what it's like to be the knife of the thief.


End file.
